


the power to give it all back

by akamine_chan



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Community: bandomstuffsit, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey finds that sometimes life takes you in unexpected directions when you search for yourself.  A story about two brothers, two bands and the lack of a sombrero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the power to give it all back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [auctorial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/auctorial/gifts).



> Written for auctorial for Bandomstuffsit 2011
> 
> This story would not exist if it weren't for the extremely hard work of several talented women who helped wrangle my tenses and other idiosyncratic story issues: Melusina, Hazelwho, and Andeincascade. Thanks also to my beloved Luce who held my hand through several panic attacks and freak outs over this story.
> 
> Warning: incest. In case the pairing didn't give it away.
> 
> Title from _The Power & The Glory by White Lies_

_2003_

He had it down to a routine. He'd avoid food as much as possible, because once he got to the venue, after they got all of their equipment situated, he'd disappear into a back alley and throw up, retching and heaving until there was nothing left in his stomach, not even bile.

Mikey would stand hunched over, one hand braced against the wall, one hand clutching his thigh, breathing shallowly through his mouth until the nausea settled down into a full-blown panic. He'd spit a couple of times, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. He was used to it by now.

His routine was gold, though. He'd straighten up and light a cigarette, ignoring how his hands shook, inhaling deeply and feeling the nicotine seep into his blood, blunting the edge of fear a little. Once he was sure he wasn't going to fall apart, he went in search of the booze. He favored shots of cheap vodka, tossed back fast to keep from tasting the astringency, but almost anything would do, even the cheap, watered-down beer that you could find at almost any venue.

Anything to deaden the roar of white noise in his head.

He drank, because it was the only thing he had that let him walk out on stage, pull the strap of his bass over his head, and play.

Tonight, a young girl pushed a couple of shots of something coffee-colored toward him—a cheap Kahlua knockoff, probably. Mikey licked his lips, saluted her with the shot and tossed it back. It was sticky-sweet with a nasty aftertaste and he finished off the other one quickly, feeling it burn all the way down.

The venue was packed with kids, skate rats, baby punk rockers and scenesters. He could feel the energy and excitement building as the first band took the stage. Drifting through the crowd, he let the music wash over him, feeling the alcohol work its magic on the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders.

Back at the bar, Mikey dug through his pockets to see how much cash he had. He had enough for a few more shots of vodka; they went a long way toward settling his nerves. The band turned out to have a strong Pearl Jam vibe that he just wasn't in the mood for and so he made his way to the green room to wait.

He sat down on the ugly couch between Frank and Gee, feeling the nerves push through the numbness of the booze.

"Hey," Frank murmured.

Mikey looked at him. He was calm and tranquil, pupils blown. "Hey, Frankie. You doing okay?"

With a dreamy smile, Frank nodded. "Doing fine, Mikeyway."

Gerard, other the other hand, was jittering to a rhythm only he could hear. Coffee and whatever else he was on combined badly. He got up, sat back down, leaned on Mikey, drank a beer, and checked his makeup in the mirror before dropping back down onto the couch, jostling Mikey and Frank. Mikey just rolled his eyes and slouched further into the couch. He sat on his hands to hide the trembling of his fingers.

They didn't have much longer to wait.

* * *

It was the worst show they'd ever played.

They were tight and tense, disjointed. Otter couldn't keep to a steady beat, slowing down and speeding up at random, throwing Mikey off stride. Frank followed Otter's lead, but kept falling a few bars behind. Gerard stumbled through the songs, forgetting lyrics, sometimes making them up on the spot. Ray's guitar, driving and loud, was the only thing holding them together, and even that couldn't last.

The audience didn't notice as the music fell apart.

When they filed off stage, Ray hugged Gerard and Frank, patting them on the back. "Not all shows are going to be perfect," he said to Mikey. "Murphy's law. We're just going to have to work harder and practice more." Ray was deceptively calm; Mikey knew that he cataloged every mistake that they'd made tonight and someday, when they were least expecting it, Ray would bring it all back up.

Mikey shrugged and starting breaking down the equipment. He was sweaty and exhausted and hungry, but the sooner they got everything back into the trailer, the sooner they could head home.

"I don't know if more practice is gonna help, Ray. Mikey's pretty determined to fuck things up."

"Gerard—" Ray started.

"Fuck you, Gee," Mikey interrupted. "I haven't cornered the market on fucking up. The words to _Honey_ aren't that complex." Mikey knew how to fight, knew where to land a punch to hurt Gerard the most.

"Hey guys, let's calm down." Ray looked to Frank for backup, but Frank was sitting against the wall, hoodie covering his head, zoned out on whatever pills he'd taken. Otter just watched them with a hint of a smile on his face, sharp-edged and mean.

"I'm calm, Ray. I'm just tired of fixing Mikey's mistakes."

And Gerard knew where to hit back, knew all of Mikey's soft spots.

"What?" He was outraged by the accusation, because they all fucked up; Gerard was far from perfect, no matter what he thought. And Mikey never expected anyone to fix the things he broke. "Go to hell, Gerard. You fuck up and leave me to clean up your motherfucking messes sometimes and—"

"And what? At least I know what I want to do with my life. I'm not wandering around without a clue, mooning after my big brother in hopes I'll find purpose in my life—"

"You know what? Fuck you." His voice was quiet. Things hadn't been right between them since that ill-advised drunken night and Mikey had _tried_ to talk to Gerard, to make things normal between them again. He was tired of trying and failing, tired of taking the blame.

He settled his bass into its case, closed the lid and flipped the clasps. The _snicks_ sounded loud in his head, echoing. Grabbing his backpack, he slung it over his shoulder and headed toward the door.

"You know he didn't mean it," Ray said, touching his arm.

Mikey looked over his shoulder at Gerard. "No, he really did." He shrugged Ray's hand away. "I've gotta go."

* * *

Mikey pawned his bass for an absurdly small sum of money, but he didn't care. He felt like he was dying inside and he just wanted to get as far away as possible. Outside the bus station, he sold his cell phone to a homeless guy for a couple of bucks. Once inside, he counted out his cash and asked how far he could get. It was enough.

An hour later he boarded the bus. He didn't look back.

    "Mom?" His voice was steady, as steady as he could make it. He didn't want to worry her more than he already had.
  
    "Mikey? Where are you, baby? What's wrong? Do you need me to—"
  
    "No." He took a deep breath. He wanted to feel her arms around him, wanted to hear her tell him that everything would be okay. He wanted to still have the innocence to believe her. "I'm—" _not okay_. He took a deep breath. "I just need some time away."
  
     "Michael." She sighed.
  
    He swallowed hard against the lump that was growing in his throat, choking him. He couldn't bear her disappointment on top of everything else.
  
    "I'm sorry, Mama."
  
    "Don't be, Mikey." Her voice was kind. "Take all the time you need. Just—call me once in a while so I don't worry. I love you, baby."
  
    He was on the verge of falling apart, holding on with his fingernails. "Love you." Carefully, he replaced the receiver and rested his head against the dirty plexiglass of the phone booth.
  
    "Fuck." 
  


* * *

  
    He had a little cash, enough to find a cheap place to stay until he got back on his feet. It didn't take him long to find a job, one that didn't require him to fill out paperwork and disclose his Social Security number. He was certain that no one back home could track him down that way, but he really didn't want to be found, so it was better to be paid slave wages under the table than take the risk.
  
    He washed dishes and mopped the floor and moved boxes filled with tortillas and got paid enough at the end of the night to afford a tiny shithole apartment. He learned to like, and on occasion cook, enchiladas and carne adovada, posole and sopapillas.
  
    The work was physically demanding and most nights, he stumbled home, exhausted. He'd crawl into bed and pass out, sleeping dreamlessly.
  
    It gave him the space and time he needed to find his balance. 
  
  
_2001_

He was still in shock; they all were.

Gerard came home and started babbling hysterically about wasted lives and making the most of the moment. He stopped sleeping and showering, holing up with Toro and Otter and talking about doing something, making a difference, leaving a mark on the world. He was running mostly on caffeine and nicotine and Mikey was freaking out about how badly Gerard was going to crash, when he finally did.

Mikey had a hard time doing anything other than laying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. He couldn't get the images out of his head, found himself paralyzed by grief and fear. The only way he could sleep was by drinking until he passed out. And even then, he was plagued by dreams of burning buildings and soot in the air, ashes falling like rain.

Gerard woke Mikey up early one morning by tugging the covers off of Mikey's head. It was obscene; Mikey could see the first tentative light of dawn coming through his window.

"What the fuck, Gee?" He rubbed at his eyes.

"Look." Gerard handed him a some scraps of paper, covered in his comic-artist-printing. Mikey read the words—the _lyrics_ that Gee'd written, and he could almost hear the music in his head, brash and loud and _alive_.

 _Can we still reclaim our innocence?_

"Come play with us, Mikey. Toro and Otter are in and I'm pretty sure that Geoff's gonna help. It'll be great," Gerard said.

"Fuck off, Gerard," he mumbled. "Leave me alone." He just wanted sleep. It took too much energy to move, let alone get up out of bed.

Gerard huffed at him, annoyed. "C'mon, Mikey. This is what we've always wanted, a chance to _do_ something, make our voices heard."

Mikey hit him in the head with his pillow. "Christ, it's too early in the morning for this, motherfucker." Shivering, he pulled the covers back up to his chin. "You do understand, right, that I _suck_ at playing the bass?"

"You don't—"

"I _do_. Just ask Frank."

"That's not fair," Gerard said softly. "To you, or to Frank." He stared at Mikey and it made him nervous, because he couldn't figure out what was going on in Gerard's head. Had no idea what Gerard saw when he looked at him. He really hadn't understood what was going on with Gerard since he'd gone off to college after—

Mikey was surprised when Gerard touched Mikey's bottom lip before leaning down to press their mouths together in a careful kiss. "Just think about it," he said, leaving Mikey alone with this thoughts.

"Fuck," Mikey sighed. He never could say no to Gerard.

    Hey, Mikeyway." Ray's voice was soft and quiet. "How are you, dude?"
  
    Mikey thought about telling Ray the truth. About how much he missed his family and friends in Jersey. How he ached without them. There was an emptiness inside of him that he was slowly getting used to, and that terrified him. Ray's answer, though, would be a simple, "Then come home." Which was not an answer that Mikey could live with, right now. "I'm okay."
  
    "Mmmm." 
  
    Ray wasn't buying it, not for one second, but he let it go. 
  
    Mikey wasn't sure if he was happy about that or not.
  


* * *

  
    Some of the guys at the restaurant played in an experimental mariachi _grupo_. _Very_ experimental. Mikey's Spanish was practically nonexistent and their English heavily accented, but the language of music knew no boundaries. Bands like the Ramones, the Clash, and the Sex Pistols were universal. Tino, Sal, Ángel, and Jesus invited Mikey along to a show one night and, as music starved as he was, he went. It was _interesting_ ; he could hear the strong tones of traditional mariachi music under the hard rock, punk-leaning stylings of _Mariachi de los Muertos_.
  
     Mikey was particularly fascinated by Jesus' instrument, a traditional fat-bodied six-stringed fretless bass. Jesus called it a _guitarrón mexicano_ and Mikey's fingers itched to try it out. And when Jesus got picked up by La Migra, he got his chance when Tino and the band asked him to play with them.
  
     He tried to make them understand that one, he played an _electric_ bass, and two, he wasn't particularly good at it. 
  
     It was harder, much harder to admit to himself that he was afraid to try. Because he wondered, not for the first time, how much of his life was cushioned by the reflected love people had for Gerard. Gerard had outwardly evolved over time from comic book geek to rock star and people loved him, wanted him, believed in him. He made being a geek cool.
  
    Mikey had to ask himself if people tolerated him just for Gerard's sake. The answer he came up, most often, was probably. Gerard was a fucking genius, brilliant and talented and amazing. He shone so brightly.
  
    Mikey was just...Mikey. No one special.
  
    Tino wouldn't listen to his refusals and so Mikey ended up, improbably, in an weird punk-rock fusion mariachi band. Tino gave him Jesus' _guitarrón_ and it took him a minute to work up the nerve to even touch it.
  
     It was lighter than his Fender, and much bigger. He hesitated before taking a deep breath and ducking, pulling the strap over his head, settling the wooden body against him.
  
    It felt like coming home.
  
  
 _1996_

It was the most awesome concert. Mikey couldn't believe it. The Smashing fucking Pumpkins. The band created this _energy_ , sharing it with the audience, throwing it out to them and the audience responded, throwing the energy back, singing, screaming, dancing, crying—it was such a high. It was amazing to hear the crowd sing along to _Bullet_ and _Zero_ ; it had given him goosebumps.

They were both still buzzing when they got home, and Gerard's stream-of-consciousness was kind of soothing as they went down to the basement.

"We should start a band."

Mikey snorted. "Right."

"No, I'm serious, Mikey. You know just about everyone on the scene; we could put together a band, practice on the weekends—"

If they were in a band, maybe Gerard would move back home. At the very least, Mikey'd see him more frequently on the weekends. But Mikey couldn't play an instrument of any sort—

Gerard hadn't stopped talking. "—and we'd be relevant, the voice of our generation, no, the voice of a voiceless generation—"

"I miss you." He couldn't help himself. It hurt to have Gerard so close, but still so far away.

Gerard stuttered to a stop. "Mikey—don't."

"It's like there's this huge part of me missing and I hate it, Gee. It—"

"No." Gerard shook his head. "I can't do this. It's wrong," he said. He headed for the stairs.

Mikey wanted to yell and scream, to make Gerard understand how important this was. He tried not to push, but sometimes he couldn't help it. "How can it be wrong?" he spat. "It's love."

"I wish it were that simple," Gerard whispered before leaving Mikey alone in the basement.

    "Hey, Mom."
  
    "Mikey, honey, how are you?"
  
    He paused, thinking about his life. "Okay. I'm okay." And he was getting closer and closer to okay each day. The weight of missing his family still pressed down _hard_ on him, suffocating, but he was slowly learning to live with that.
  
     "You sound better. Not so—stretched out and thin."
  
    He could hear the smile in her voice, could imagine the way she lightly touched her hair, checking to make sure every curl and wave was where it was supposed to be.
  
    "Yeah." He scratched at something stuck to the window of the booth. "I love you, Mama."
  
    "Love you, too, Mikey. Take care of yourself."
  
    He had to smile a little at that, because maybe for the first time in his life, he was doing just that. "I will."
  


* * *

  
    Mikey was a little bitter that Tino wouldn't let him wear a sombrero. It was traditional, he argued. Tino just shook his head and pointed out that _Mariachi de los Muertos_ wasn't a traditional mariachi band. They did have cool outfits, dark pants and jackets with silver buttons that reminded Mikey of the marching band uniforms from high school. Marching band of the dead, maybe.
  
     They gave Mikey a couple of weeks to get used to playing the _guitarrón_ , which made him laugh, because the _guitarrón_ was a distant, distant cousin to his bass. Tino and the guys didn't push, but they seemed to have a lot of faith in his abilities.
  
     He found himself trying to live up to their expectations but was disconcerted to discover that it didn't seem to cause the same kind of unbearable pressure that he'd experienced before. It was confusing, because he liked these guys and they were becoming his family, in his self-imposed exile. Tino invited him into his home for the holidays and made him go to Mass with his family and Ángel was trying to hook Mikey up with his second cousin.
  
    Life moved on, whether you were ready or not.
  
  
 _1995_

It was a party at a friend of a friend's house; Mikey wasn't sure exactly _who_ , but in the end, it didn't matter. He convinced Gerard to come along and that was a bad idea in the history of bad ideas. Gerard was not exactly a partying-type.

Gerard wallflowered, steadily drinking while Mikey danced and flirted and talked and generally had a good time. Eventually, he lost track of things until someone grabbed his elbow hard and pulled him free of the crowd. "Ow, Gerard, that hurts."

"Let's go."

"What? No, I'm not ready—" He tried to shrug off Gerard's grip but he was holding on tight enough to leave bruises behind. "What the fuck?" he muttered as Gerard pulled him down the sidewalk. They weren't far from home, but Mikey wasn't happy about being manhandled. "What is your problem, Gerard?"

"We're going home," he said, not letting up on his grip on Mikey's arm.

Mikey sulked, because it was barely after midnight, on a Friday night. There'd been good music and plenty of booze.

Their house was empty; their parents were visiting relatives down south. Gerard shoved him through the front door, slamming it shut behind them.

"Christ, Gee." Mikey barely had a moment to register Gerard's pale face and the angry twist to his mouth before he was pushed up against the door and Gerard was _kissing_ him, hard and fast.

Mikey gasped in surprise and Gerard took advantage of that, pressing in with his tongue and exploring. "Didn't like seeing those people put their hands on you," Gerard muttered, nipping at Mikey's bottom lip.

"Fuck," Mikey groaned. "It didn't mean anything, _they_ didn't mean anything. . ."

"Mine," Gerard hissed before working on the buttons of Mikey's pants.

The world spun crazily and that was the last coherent thing Mikey remembered as Gerard stripped him down and broke him apart, pulling the pleasure out of him with his wet mouth, desperate hands and frantic words.

* * *

He woke in his own bed, Gerard wrapped around him like a blanket. He stretched a little and felt Gerard run his fingers through his hair. Mikey leaned into the touch with a sigh.

"I'm moving to the city."

Mikey froze.

"It'll be better, less of a commute; I can concentrate on my school work."

He knew bullshit when he heard it from Gerard. "When did you fucking decide this?" He tried to roll over, but Gerard kept a firm hand on his hip, not letting him move. "When, Gee?" Gerard pulled him close, trying to hold him, but Mikey wasn't having it.

"Please, Mikey," he whispered into Mikey's ear. "It's what's best for both of us."

And what the fuck could Mikey say to that? He closed his eyes and shivered, wondering which of them was the bigger coward—Gerard for running away, or Mikey for letting him.

    "Hello?"
  
    Mikey recoiled from the handset, shocked. He hung up before he could think twice about it. He wasn't ready to deal with Gerard yet.
  
    He fought with the phone booth door, hands shaking. He couldn't breath, there was no air in the tiny booth, he needed, he needed—
  
    The air was cold as he leaned over, gasping, hands braced against thighs.
  
    "Hey, man, you okay?"
  
    Mikey waved away the stranger's concern and slowly straightened up. He was shivering and he wrapped his arms around himself as he made his way back to his empty apartment. 
  


* * *

  
    Their first performance was for Sal's cousin's half-sister's boyfriend's aunt's wedding and Mikey was a little anxious about the whole deal. It'd been a while since he'd done _anything_ in public, and this was a new band, and a new instrument. . .
  
     Tino slapped him on the back and enveloped him in a bear hug. Sal and Ángel joined in, squeezing the air out of Mikey and making him wheeze. They grinned and pulled Mikey onto their little make-shift stage. Tino introduced them and ran through his patter; Mikey only understood every other sentence, but the smiling faces in the crowd said everything he needed to know.
  
    It went well. Mikey fucked up a couple of times, still unused to six strings and a bigger instrument, but the band just laughed and kept on making music.
  
    After that, they played the occasional wedding, _quinceañeras_ , and birthday party. Sometimes they played at the Mexican bar down the street from the restaurant. Punk-rock mariachi music proved to be popular with the younger crowd who were too cool to like their parent's music. It made Mikey smile and, or the first time since he'd left New Jersey behind, he felt content.
  
  
 _1994_

Mikey was a little buzzed. He'd been stealing sips of Gerard's rum and Coke all night and now he was pleasantly relaxed and fuzzy. The television threw flickering shadows against the wall and Mikey watched them for a while, hypnotized. He'd seen _Dawn of the Dead_ enough times to know what was happening on screen, just by the dialog. Or the screams.

The basement was warm, too warm and stuffy, but Gerard, freak that he was, refused to open any of the tiny windows. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies, and sweat. It was gross and disgusting, but it was the smell Mikey always associated with home, with Gerard.

He rolled in his nest of blankets, burying his nose against Gerard's shoulder. The Gerard-funk was _bad_. He didn't want to think about the last time Gee's hoodie had been washed.

"Hmmm?" Gerard hummed absently, taking a sip of his drink and settling his arm around Mikey's shoulders. "You okay, Mikes?" He petted Mikey's hair, carding his fingers through it, working out some of the knots. Gerard's fingers scritched at his scalp until Mikey was almost purring.

Mikey turned his face up, about to make some comment about how stupid Roger was being when he noticed how close Gerard's face was. He was right there and the potential of the moment stretched time out in strange ways. Somewhere in the back of Mikey's brain, a voice was chanting _now now now motherfuckingnow_. Mikey licked at his lips and Gerard's eyes dropped to followed the movement.

A shiver moved through him and Gerard's eyes fluttered shut. Mikey _wanted_.

Leaning up slowly, Mikey pressed his mouth to Gerard's. For a long beat, the world stopped and Mikey held his breath, waiting, waiting, waiting to see if Gerard was going to shove him away, or punch him, or— Gerard moaned, so soft it was more breath than sound. Mikey took a chance and stole a taste, cigarettes and alcohol and something that spoke simply of _Gerard_ and it was both familiar and new. Mikey had to pull away because he was getting dizzy with how much he wanted this—

Gerard looked overwhelmed, scared. "Mikey—" He touched his shaking fingers to Mikey's cheek. Climbing out of bed, he whispered, "We can't do this," as he backed away.

"Gerard?"

Shaking his head, Gerard ran up the stairs, the door slamming shut behind him.

Mikey hid his face against the pillow that smelled like Gerard. He was so fucked. He'd ruined everything because he couldn't keep his fucked-up-ness to himself. He waited, curled up and tense, but Gerard didn't come home that night.

He'd always loved Gerard, but it was the first time Mikey realized he was _in_ love with him.

     "Hi, son."
  
    "Hey, Dad."
  
    "How are you?"
  
    Mikey closed his eyes, because that was the one question he really never knew the answer to. "Okay, I guess. You?"
  
    "Well, one of my boys left home and I miss him. But other than that, things are okay. We're keeping busy and staying out of trouble."
  
    "Christ, Dad—" Mikey rested his head against the wall of the phone booth, swallowing hard against the burn in his eyes.
  
    "It's all right, Mikey," he said, voice gruff. "We'll be waiting for you when you're ready to come home."
  


* * *

  
    When Mikey wasn't at work, or practicing with the band, he hung out at the public library. He was afraid to sign up for a card, so he couldn't check anything out. But that didn't stop him from finding a comfy chair in a secluded corner and reading some of the books that had been on his to-read list for _years_.
  
     On the weekends, the library was flooded with kids who showed up for all the free programs, and they were fun to be around, but during the week it was quiet. He watched as people came in to use the small bank of computers, connecting to the internet in the only way they could. There was no way he could pretend to himself not to be interested. He was tempted to check his email. Gerard might have—
  
    No. He wasn't going there. He just couldn't. He still wasn't ready to deal with Gerard.
  
    He wondered if he ever would be.
  
  
 _1990_

They saw _Darkman_ and Mikey couldn't get over how great the movie was. Mikey was sure that _Evil Dead II_ was his favorite Raimi film, but _Darkman_ had some great moments. And afterward, they went to the comic book store. Mikey was in heaven and Gerard was the most awesome brother the world.

"Oh, what about this?" he asked, pointed to a comic with a illustration of young boy on the cover. Mikey squinted; it kinda looked like Gerard, except for the glasses.

"Hmmm. _The Books of Magic_? Oh, rock on, Gaiman's writing it." Gerard put it in their pile. "What else?"

Mikey was overwhelmed, as he always was, by the sheer number of titles lining the walls of the store. He watched as Gerard picked out a copy of _Alien Legion_ and the latest _Dark Horse Presents_. One day, he knew, Gerard was going to be a famous comic book artist.

He wished he could draw like Gerard did. He wished he could do _something_. He didn't want Gerard to leave him behind.

"Mikey! Come check this out."

"Okay."

    "A mariachi band?" She giggled and Mikey had to smile. "Mikey, you never fail to surprise me."
  
    He put a little bit of a whine into his voice. "It's a punk-rock mariachi band, Mom. It's _experimental_."
  
     She chuckled again. "That's one way of putting it." Her laughter faded. "You doing okay, sweetie?"
  
    He ran his fingers through his hair, which was long and shaggy and in desperate need of a cut. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I am, Mom."
  
    For a long moment, she was silent. "I was starting to worry that you weren't ever going to be okay again."
  
    Mikey thought about it, the way that his life had been comprised of badly healed fault lines and stress fractures. It had taken very little pressure to shatter him. He sighed. "Me, too." He knew where the cracks were now, could avoid pressing too hard on them. 
  
    It wasn't ideal, but he could survive on his own, he knew that.
  
    He wouldn't break so easily next time. 
  


* * *

  
    He bought himself a notebook and started writing down the fragments of music he heard in his head, melodies that haunted his waking hours. Sometimes he even found the words to go along with the musical notes. He would never be as good at lyrics as Gerard was, but. . .
  
    Shyly, he showed the half-written songs to Tino, who just stared at him for a long moment. "Mikey—" He was on the verge of saying something more, but he shook his head and showed Mikey how to make everything _better_.
  
     In the end, Tino nodded. "These will be good for your other band."
  
    Mikey was surprised. "What—"
  
    "The one you ran away from." Tino always saw more than anyone gave him credit for.
  
    He tried to shrug it off, like My Chem hadn't been the second most important thing in his life.
  
    "The one you'll go back to, eventually." 
  
    There wasn't really anything Mikey could say to that.
  
  
 _1986_

Gerard helped him up off the ground, brushing the dirt and leaves off of his shirt. "You okay, Mikey?"

Mikey nodded and bit at his lip. Scott Summers and his friends had pushed him down and stolen his lunch again. Their mom was going to be mad because he'd torn a hole in the knee of his jeans. She complained about how quickly he was growing out of his pants.

"If I were a superhero I'd go beat 'em up for you."

Mikey shook his head. He didn't want Gerard to get hurt, too. "S'okay, Gee."

Gerard scowled. "It's not." He looked over his shoulder at Scott and his group of bullies. "You're my brother and no one should ever hurt you. You're mine to take care of." He straightened his back and walked over to them before Mikey could stop him.

Later, when their mom put a bag of frozen peas on Gerard's eye, Mikey snuck his hand into Gerard's and squeezed.

Mikey had always looked up to Gerard as his hero, but for the first time, he didn't mind if it showed on his face.

    "Thanks, Mrs. Way," Frank said in the background, before speaking directly into the phone. "Dude. Did Ray tell you we got your bass out of hock? You shouldn't have pawned it to begin with."
  
    "I needed the money." He pinched the bridge of his nose.
  
    "Where are you?"
  
    Mikey looked around at the city around him, strange and different and _not home_. He shrugged. "Doesn't really matter."
  
     "Mikey—"
  
    There was a world of regret in Frank's voice and Mikey wasn't sure he was ready to deal with it. "Don't. Just, don't, Frankie."
  
    "We've all gone clean," he said in a rush, sounding young. "No more getting drunk, no more getting stoned. Partly in solidarity for Gerard and partly—"
  
    Mikey waited for Frank to continue. "Frank?" he coaxed. "Partly for Gerard and..?"
  
    "I think we hoped that if we were good enough, you'd come home," he said in a rush. "Please, Mikey. Gerard is the heart of us but you're our soul and we miss you. So much."
  
    "Frank." His throat was so tight he could hardly breathe. "Frankie—"
  
    "Please," he interrupted. "It's so fucking hard without you. The band isn't _right_ without you."
  
     "I can't—I'm not ready—"
  
    "Please, Mikey." The words were ragged. "Gotta go," he whispered. 
  
    There was a clatter and he could hear his mom talking; her words weren't clear, but the inflection of her voice— Mikey'd heard that tone before, whenever he was upset or hurt or needed comfort. When she'd hugged him and whispered words into his hair. "Fuck," he said, hanging up the phone.
  


* * *

  
    It was late; the restaurant was closed and they'd finally finished for the evening. They were trying to find the energy to get up and go home. It was quiet and still in the empty restaurant.
  
    "Do you miss New Jersey?" Ángel asked.
  
    Mikey shrugged. "Yeah."
  
    He nodded. "I miss my home, too."
  
    Sometimes, Mikey forgot that he wasn't the only one a long way away from home. Ángel was from Oaxaca, in southern Mexico.
  
    "Do you want to go back?" He was curious. He couldn't imagine not only leaving your home, but your country, as well.
  
    Ángel scrubbed his hands through his dark hair. "Yes, yes, of course I do. But there's nothing for me there. Not like you."
  
    Mikey took a deep, steadying breath. Yeah. There was a lot waiting for him at home.
  
  
 _2004_

He'd been waiting for it to happen, for him to come home from his job and find someone waiting in his doorway—his mom, or maybe Frank. Not Gerard. Never Gerard. He hadn't let himself think about that. Which had possibly been a tactical error. If he'd at least entertained the idea, he could have practiced some of the things he'd wanted to say.

Instead, he was stuck staring at Gerard in utter dismay, unprepared for the wave of _loveangerlonging_ that washed through him.

Gerard looked...healthy. He'd lost the pasty white complexion that had come with the drugs and drinking. Now it was just his normal I-wanna-be-a-vampire-the-sun-it-burns! paleness that he'd cultivated for years. His clothes looked clean and Mikey had to wonder, uncharitably, if Gerard had moved back in with their parents.

As Mikey approached, Gerard moved to the side, giving Mikey room to slide his key into the door knob. It took a minute for him to unlock the three remaining deadbolts; he didn't exactly live in the safest neighborhood. But it had been cheap and anonymous and for the most part, no one bothered him except for Mrs. Kowalski across the hall, who was nosy and didn't have any compunction about asking Mikey about his lack of social life. He didn't mind, because she invited him over for dinner at least once a week and free food was free food.

He heard the distinctive creak of her door opening. "Evening, Mrs. Kowalski."

"Everything okay, Michael?"

Mikey turned to look at her door, which was open enough for her to peer out at him. "Everything's fine, thanks."

"You sure?" She glared suspiciously at Gerard. "This—this disreputable-looking man has been hanging outside of your door all day. I wasn't sure if he was a jealous ex-boyfriend, determined to win you back, or maybe the scoundrel who broke your heart—"

Mikey had to chuckle at that. "No, Mrs. Kowalski. He's just someone I used to know." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gerard flinch.

"Well, if you're sure you'll be okay. . ."

"I'll be fine," he said reassuringly. "I can take care of myself."

"Of course you can. Handsome, strong boy like you. . ." She closed her door with a thump, muttering under her breath.

Mikey finally pushed into his apartment, leaving Gerard to follow or not. He heard Gerard's footsteps and the click of the door shutting. Gee stood awkwardly in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as Mikey started a pot of coffee.

"Figured you'd want coffee." It wasn't a question.

"Yea—" Gerard cleared his throat. "Yeah."

Pointing with his chin, Mikey indicated the modest kitchen table. "Have a seat."

After fidgeting for a moment, Gerard took a step forward before pausing and brushing his dark hair out of his eyes. He stuck his hands into his pockets before _skittering_ around Mikey to the table and sitting down. Mikey could feel the weight of Gee's gaze on his back as he waited for the coffee to brew.

"You look good, Mikey." He cleared his throat. "You've put on some weight."

Rolling his eyes, Mikey filled two mugs before setting them on the table and sitting down across from Gerard. He was curious about how Gerard found him; he thought he covered his tracks pretty well. But there was a more important question. "Why are you here?"

Mikey watched, fascinated, as Gerard bristled before deflating and dropping his eyes. "I stopped drinking. And taking drugs," he mumbled. "I'm seeing a therapist."

"That's good, I guess," he said, confused. "But—"

"My therapist says I have to make it clear that I'm doing those things for myself, not to try to get you to come home," Gerard said. He took a deep breath and met Mikey's eyes. "I'm sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry, so sorry—"

"Gee," Mikey interrupted, holding out his hand. "It's okay."

Slowly, like he was afraid Mikey would spook if he moved too fast, Gerard slipped his hand into Mikey's. "C'mere," he said roughly, tugging.

Mikey slipped out of his chair and fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around Gerard's waist and squeezing, holding on like his life depended on it. He could feel Gerard holding him close, could feel Gerard's breath against his neck as Gee huddled over him, clutching at him with too-tight hands. "I've missed you so much." Mikey's voice wobbled a little. "It was so hard, starting over by myself, but I needed to prove—"

"No, Mikey, I didn't mean it, you _know_ I didn't—"

"—to myself that I was more than just your little brother, that I could stand on my own two feet."

"Of course you can. You can do anything, you've always been so strong. . ."

Mikey pulled away to look up into Gerard's face " _I_ needed to know that." At Gee's look, he shrugged. "You're not the only one who's been seeing a therapist."

"Oh." Gerard bit at his bottom lip. "I love you."

He rested his head against Gerard's chest, listening to the beating of his heart.

It was going to be okay after all.

-fin- 


End file.
